1
A good-time Charlie from the start, my father
wasn’t even a year when he got caught
laughing at the whole idea of being
here: the black hole
of his mouth swallows the light whitening
his baby bonnet, circa 1912.
The o his lips have formed
is shaded like a zero on an early
printout, dark as the light-starved snow-draped earth
sledgehammered open to the sun
fifty-two years later at Fort Snelling
or as these letters, my own charred remains.
2
Last night I shaved my beard to play the baby
faced infant I am there
in the black-&-white photograph of me
cheek to cheek with my mother, lips twisted
into a faint smile as if I’m just learning
to kiss. Her eyes
look faraway, as though she can’t believe
what’s happened. She stretched out her arms & cried
in my dream, imploring me one more time
to bring her back to life. It seems the flowers
climbing all over her like shadows spring
from the leafy vines covering her chair
& papering the living room,
the way I am growing out of her hands.
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